Dopey
by Cherry Champagne
Summary: I hate titles. Um. A miserable Stan uses a little tiny Ike to get back at a neglectful Kyle, and things happen because of it. Mature, yo.


AN/Warning: I want you all to be aware that I am sixteen, unintelligent, irresponsible, and properly ashamed. If you're easily offended, I don't know why you're here, but please don't complain if you get offended. I wrote this shit in one sitting, and I am by no means proofreading. Actually that's a lie, I wrote the first three pages in like, March what the shit. Annd it would probably look a lot better in a few chapters but that'd mean breaking it up, saving it, uploading it, then copy pasting it all back into one document and deleting all the old separate files so I don't have a bunch of clutter and…I need to get ready for school, okay, I apologize, I'm awful. Oh. Also. I do not like Style. And I do not like Kyle. Which makes writing this a little…weird, for me. Sorry. ;C I love Stan, though, if that helps.

--

Dying a slow, mushy death. That's what it felt like. Like the past three years, and the next seventy, where just one long, prolonged death scene—a poorly scripted one.

Stan spun in the office chair, curling his feet under to avoid hitting the counter, as he considered how emo his considerations where. True. But emo.

Lots of bearable little tortures—a thousand paper cuts—stepping in dog poo while simultaneously being crapped on by an opportunistic pigeon. That was Stan's life. Poo.

Still emo.

He poked his finger through the Give a Penny, Take a Penny dish, looking for anything to pique his interest, and in an increasingly extended streak, found himself disappointed.

Poo.

The glass door swung open, letting in a gust of lukewarm air. Stan perked attentively, pulling his finger out of the dish like a kid pulling his finger out of his nose, then relaxed—albeit with a newfound cheer spread on his face—when he saw who it was.

"Hey—"

"Stan, I need you to do me a favor."

He wasted no time with casual niceties, those having long since gone down the drain with his free time. Kyle's life was now devoted to attaching himself to Red. Stan was an accessory.

"Aw, come on, I haven't seen you in forever and now you want a favor?" Stan slumped over the counter, his thumb slipping under his top lip.

Kyle ran a hand through his day-glo red hair, its process impeded by the thick traffic of curls so that he started speaking before he got it free. "Dude, c'mon. We're hanging out on Sunday, aren't we?"

"Like we hung out on Monday? And Saturday? And--"

"I swear to God, this Sunday, if you do this for me."

Stan considered this. Swears didn't mean a lot to Kyle nowadays—maybe broken ones presented in bulk, however, would manage to sway him at least a little. Each time, he got a bit closer.

"What favor?"

Kyle's face broke into a broad smile—he had really nice teeth. And here he was doing that thing again—like Tarzan, his nose an inch from Stan's, giving no privacy in way of eye contact. Why he did this, aside from that it worked, Stan didn't know.

"All you have to do is baby-sit Ike. Just one night, 'til around…like, twelve. Or something. I swear so hard, I'll owe you forever."

Was it racist to assume that smell on his breath was matzo? Considering he didn't even really know what matzo was? Well, not so much assume as hope.

He sighed, hung his head, and sneered slightly. "Fine. But you have to swear—"

"I've sworn like fifty times—"

"—on your left NUT, this Sunday. I never see you anymore."

"I'm here now."

"Because you want something."

"…Yeah." There was a lot of breathe on it. A lot of possibly-matzo breath. "Sorry. Okay, come over at six?"

"Fine."

Kyle grinned, showing those teeth again, breathed a quick thanks, and stormed back out the door, all in one curved motion.

Stan watched him go, watched the air he'd touched swirl in the sunbeams cutting through the shade of the store, and convinced himself to snap out of it by returning his attention to the dish. After a few seconds, he noticed a flash of unusual texture on a quarter near the bottom. Upon bringing it up to eye level, he realized he had finally found something attention-worthy—a Colorado quarter, Kyle's birth state, made in Kyle's birth year. He smiled at it, tucked it into his jeans pocket, and went back to contemplating nothing for a good ten minutes before realizing it was his birth state and year too.

--

There weren't any cars in the driveway as Stan walked up to the house, pulling the ear buds out and shoving his ipod into his pocket. The older Broflovskis had probably taken the van, leaving Kyle with the compact—which he had probably left in. Probably. Didn't even bother to stay to give the baby-sitting directions Stan didn't need.

Ike answered the door by holding onto the edge with both hands, peering out through the crack with slightly narrowed eyes. "Oh! Hi, Stan!" he said, bopping back into the living room with a grin displaying the train tracks across the previous train wreck of his teeth.

"Hey." Stan pulled off his jacket, hung it on the knob of the stair banister, and turned to smile at the eleven-year-old. "What's up?"

"Nothin'. I was playing Smash Bros—wanna play?" He wrung his hands as he spoke, smiling and twisting his hips. Younger kid talking to older kid body language. Ike may have been the only eleven-year-old in seventh grade, but there was a pretty big difference between fitting in with thirteen year olds and being looked at by a seventeen year old—even one you'd known since he was six.

Stan, himself, having been subjected to pretty much only one type of sibling, thought Ike was generally pretty cool for a kid his age. "Oh, cool, I wanna play."

"Okay!" He scrambled back to the entertainment center and started setting up the second controller.

They silently for about half an hour before Ike spoke up, his brown eyes remaining focused on the screen, flitting from side to side like REM sleep. "D'you remember when I did a teacher in preschool?"

"What!?" Ike knocked Stan's character off the stage.

"Mom told me about it, 'cause the counselor told me about it, kinda. I think I might remember a little. D'you remember?"

"Uh. Yeah, what about it?"

He shrugged. The announcer began counting down the last five seconds, and the game ended, showing Ike's character in the foreground, victorious. He set down his controller, climbed off the couch, and announced, "I'm hungry."

"Uh, am I supposed to make you something?"

He shook his head. Stan noticed he was wearing a hand-me-down of Kyle's—an oversized hoodie that gave him the figure of a starfish from the hips up, orange with green stripes down the arms. Kyle had been taller and thinner than Ike was now, but it fit them generally the same—making their heads and legs look too small by comparison. Before Stan could finish contrasting the two, he tottered to the kitchen. Stan sat, mired in the couch, and listened to the sounds of cupboards opening, the microwave running, and Ike fidgeting.

When he came back, he was gingerly holding a plastic bowl—Stan couldn't see inside, but from the way he held it, he could tell it was some kind of soup. He set it down on the floor, falling to meet it, and started changing the channel on the TV manually.

"Oh man, Terrance and Phillip."

Ike smiled over his shoulder before setting back onto the floor to eat his dinner.

Stan could hardly remember the last time he and Kyle had done this—sit and watch Terrence and Phillip, not interacting with each other but enjoying the show more for one another's presence—but he was willing to bet it felt somewhat like this. Ike ate his soup like Kyle, ducking his head down to the bowl as he put the spoon in his mouth to eradicate all risk of spills, and when he finished, he hopped to his feet—unlike Kyle but cute nonetheless—and tottered back to the kitchen, where Stan listened to him carefully wash the dishes and put them back in their place.

When he came back, he forewent his spot on the floor to sit directly beside Stan on the couch, spine straight, hands buried in his sleeves buried underneath him, all eyes reflecting TV light. Stan scolded himself internally for watching all the little movements the little kid made, and tried to focus on the TV, on which their show was ending and transferring over to some new cartoon that had come up since he'd outgrown cartoons, of which he had almost no interest. The remote was halfway under Ike's butt, like his hands, on the side opposite Stan. He supposed he'd just have to deal.

After some time in a dazed trance, Ike yawned flamboyantly, hiccupped, and maneuvered himself to a new position—knees curled up to his chest, on his side, head in Stan's crotch.

Stan had had two people (plus his dog,) in his life put their head in his lap—Wendy, during their last very slightly post-pubescent fling that the both of them were certain was the cause of Stan's current homosexual state, and a very drunken Kenny, who only managed to innocently rest on his friend for a matter of seconds before turning his head and causing Stan to flip him onto the floor. Both people he was incredibly close with. Ike, a childhood facet and somewhat of a stranger, was new.

"Ya tired, buddy?"

Ike nodded, mussing his hair and causing unneeded friction.

"Wanna go to bed?"

He shook his head, similar results. Yawned again.

Stan started to speak, but couldn't think of something to say to express the awkwardness he was feeling without revealing his thoughts to the eleven-year-old, so he snapped his jaw shut and glued his attention back to the shitty cartoon.

The show ended, and Ike began to snore breathily. Not like Kyle—Kyle slept like a corpse. But he held his little fists up to his face like Kyle.

He debated for a little while, tried to judge Ike's weight, shrugged, and scooped his curled-up body into his arms. Ike gave a squealing, yawning, muttering sound, thrust out his ribbed chest, and cuddled up to Stan—remarkably heavy, he was also remarkably cute when asleep.

He had a room halfway between normal eleven-year-old and Broflovski—Kyle's had always been all Broflovski—the potential to be heavily organized, with plastic shelving in the corner, a large desk with large drawers, closet open and leaking, showing more storage units, but all looking like they'd only been ransacked for some time and not properly filled. Small debris scattered the ground, but not so that walking was difficult, even with seventy pounds of Ike disturbing his vision.

Gently as he could, he lowered Ike to the bed, tried to pull the faded baseball-themed comforter up over him, and paused as Ike half-opened his brown eyes.

"You up?"

His hand slipped out of his loose sleeve and grabbed onto Stan's wrist, pulling him weakly down.

"Are you gay?"

Stan pulled his head back on his neck, eyebrows furrowed. "Uh?"

"Are you?"

"Umm, yeah, but that—"

Ike tugged at him, tiny hand, knobble wrist.

Four years ago, when they were all thirteen, Stan and Kyle had been sharing the bed at Kenny's house, Kenny wrapped up on the dirty floor in a blanket stolen from his brother, who had disappeared for the night. The house was always freezing, and they were both fully dressed in hats and mittens, Kyle in the orange starfish hoodie with the green stripes running from the shoulder to the wrist. Sometime past three, Stan was gently rustled from his cat-nap sleep as Kyle struggled his way out of the blanket, hopped over Kenny, and stood in the center of the room. A shaft of light angled through the room as a car passed, and Stan watched sleepily as Kyle bounced to his tip-toes, arms raised so that the sweatshirt, which was getting too short, raised to show the hills and valley of his back, yawned, and scratched his ass as he walked out of the room to the bathroom.

Present-day Stan counted the freckles on half-asleep Ike's nose, five pale and asymmetrical spots, eyes ticking nervously, and with a final tug allowed himself to be pulled under the warm-smelling comforter.

--

Stan learned the size and shape of the inside the Ike's mouth, the texture of his tongue, and the way his butt felt but not looked. The sweatshirt got crumpled up and kicked to the foot of the mattress, and Kyle's visage still pounded through Stan's mind—thinking about his thick curly hair as he buried his claws in straight, soft hair, Kyle's bony hips and concave stomach as he brushed the softness of Ike's belly.

After a time, Ike broke contact, giggled bubbly and sugary, and put his forehead to Stan's shoulder, where he fell asleep instantly. Just like that.

Because it kept him from thinking about what had just happened, Stan followed suit as best as he could.

--

"Helloooo?"

Stan woke up gasping, shot up, strands of drool connecting him to the limp pillow, and Ike crinkled his short nose and curled up tighter against the disturbance.

He vaulted himself out of the unfamiliar bed so quickly he hit his head on the opposite wall, began desperately searching for his clothes before realizing he'd never taken them off, bit his thumb hard, and stumbled out of the room, turning off the lights and shutting the door frantically as he went.

He tried not to shake as he walked down the stairs, thinking about walking so hard he couldn't remember how to do it normal, and saw Kyle standing just in front of the door, pulling his sneaker off with the opposite foot. The dopey grin on his face told him more about his date than he'd like to have known.

"Hey dude." Too loud.

"Hey, man, thank you so much for doing this—Sunday, swear to God." He opened his palm for a high-five, which Stan delivered weakly. "He asleep?"

Nod.

"Great—hey, you wanna just stay over? Or do you have to work tomorrow?"

"Uh, ehm—gotta work." Truth.

"Oh, that sucks. Well I'm just gonna go to bed—man, thank you SO MUCH." Dimples and a few pale freckles traveled his face with his smile, and although he wasn't directly the one to put it there, underneath the fear, Stan was glad to be a butterfly-wing-flap to Kyle's happiness hurricane.

"No problem." He slipped his shoes onto the wrong feet and stumbled out the door, into the snow, dark blue eyes unnaturally wide with fear.

--

"…So I poked him in the eye and ran. You know, that actually works out a lot better than ball-kicking, they always except a ball-kick but eye-poking is almost as debilitating, what with the half-blindness, and a lot less sexist."

"Hm."

Wendy put down the can she was holding on the shelf, turning in her squat to pout in Stan's direction, slumped over the counter.

"Are you listening?"

"Yeah, totally."

She smiled maternally, stood up and rubbed the store-floor dirt from the knees of her jeans, and shuffled over to her morose ex. "What's on your mind, sunshine?"

"Huh?" When he spoke, the top of his head bounced as his jaw lifted it up from the counter, arms stretched in front of him to a complete and utter slump. "Nothing."

"Kyle?"

"No, not Kyle."

She leaned against the counter as well, big violet eyes narrowed and lower lip pouted. Turned off by girls though he was, Stan still appreciated Wendy as a very pretty friend. "I know you, that's a Kyle face. He ditch you again?"

"It is not a Kyle face. It's nothing worth discussing."

"He and Red are really happy, you know. I mean, Red talks like they're one-hundred-percent positive to get married and have little redhead kids and fuck into the sunset. I'm not saying you have to GIVE UP, but you should be prepared should it, you know, not work out. Just 'cause you can't get the gold doesn't mean there's any shame in settling for silver." She cocked her head, mocking his sad puppy-dog eyed expression.

"I told you it's not a Kyle face! I have problems that aren't Kyle, you know!"

"Yeah but you don't mope about them like that."

"Shouldn't you be stocking?"

She rolled her eyes and went back to her box of unshelved cans, humming as irritatingly as she could.

Now that talking to Wendy was out as entertainment in the lonely store, he went back to his favorite hobby—aside from drawing penises in the stagnant dust—poking through the penny dish.

The Colorado one was still there, unwanted, and a new addition—some cheater had put in a Canadian penny.

Oh ha ha, God.

--

Sunday and Stan hadn't heard from Kyle since Friday night/Saturday morning. Assuming the plans were still on, he walked to the richer side of the neighborhood despite the negative three wind chill (supposed to be the coldest day of the year, but they had at least three "coldest day of the year"s a year,) and shot his hand out of his warmed pocket a split second to ring the bell.

He heard it echo inside, and ventured a gaze to the empty parking lot curiously.

Watched his breath a few seconds, rang again, his pocket starting to lose warmth, and heard the quick patter of socks on floor inside. He straightened his posture.

Ike opened the door the way Ike opened doors, peeking out suspiciously, and grinned dopily—Kyle's dopey, grateful grin. He stepped back, in a non-hand-me-down today, and allowed Stan to rush inside, shuddering.

"Kyle says to tell you he's really super sorry and he's an asshole, but something came up." He latticed his hands over his mouth to stifle a laugh, and grumbled, "Reeeed."

Poo and heartbreak, why did his Romeo have to love some Juliet?

Dear God he was emo.

"Um, um—since you have nothing to do, and my mom and dad are gone—"

"You wanna go for a walk?" It popped out of him without any thought.

Ike turned his head slightly, like he was trying to aim his ear more toward the source of the sound to better his ability to hear, eyebrows up. "Walk? It's below zero out there."

"Yes. It is."

Awkward silence.

"Do you really want to walk or are you just afraid of me?"

"Um."

"Come on, Stan." Ike grabbed a hold of his frozen fingertips in his hot, red little hand, pulling him on useless legs up the stairs.

"…Honestly, Ike? I'm terrified of you."

"That's cute."

--

His nose ran, and the sudden change from freezing cold to boiling hot made him sweat like Cartman in gym. Ike had to have a fever or an internal furnace, no one could be that hot just by themselves, and when he tried to crawl out of his clothes Stan pulled them back on—Kyle and he had very different body types, of which Stan didn't need reminding. He allowed his round, dexterous hands to grope where they wanted, at one point having his undulating erection held like a joystick in both of the exploring fists, before tugging them out by one of his elbows.

"Prude." Ike laughed, before shifting his grip to Stan's face, mashing their mouths together in a blissful, dreamy motion, and Stan tasted the metal of his braces, and while his brain remarked on the talent of the eleven-year-old, his dick softened slightly—Kyle had never had braces.

Kenny needed braces but of course never had them. Cartman had them for a while, but Stan had had them for four miserable years—Butters had them just as long, and eventually had one of the teeth he had spent so long straightening knocked out in an accident and replaced with a fake that could be popped in and out.

"…Stan?"

He blinked back to the present—Ike's little oven of a bed. "Nn-huh?"

"You spaced out for a second."

"Oh—uh—"

Ike kissed him again, guiding his hand to his waist, and exploded into a fit of loud coughs into Stan's face. "--Sorry."

"Are you okay?"

Ike nodded before Stan caught his round forehead in his palm. He'd lost outside's temperature a while ago, and Ike still felt far hotter than natural.

"You DO have a fever."

"I do?"

"You do."

"Oh."

They lay for a minute, unsure of the next step, until, for the sake of motion, Stan crawled out of the bed and to the floor.

"If you're sick I should probably…go home. I mean, I…sorry, I don't want to catch it."

Ike pulled the blanket up to cover everything but his big eyes. "You're leaving me alone?"

"Just hang out a couple hours 'til someone gets home—um, you should sleep—I can bring you some water or food or something?"

Heartbreakingly, he turned to face the wall, the glare visible on his face for just the last second. "No, I don't care, just go."

Stan hesitated, played with his undone belt, stared at the ceiling, and then turned helplessly and left.

--

Stan jumped as Kyle appeared around his shoulder, holding up a familiar ipod.

"Ike said you left this at my house?" He asked curiously, leaning against the locker beside Stan's.

Stan grabbed it, shoved it into his own locker, slammed the door, and started walking to his first period class with Kyle tailing him.

"Why'd you even put it down?"

"I don't know."

His glare softened as he watched Kyle chew his lip, concern apparent.

"You mad?"

"No."

"You're acting mad."

"I'm not mad!"

"You have to work today?"

"Yeah."

"Shit, you always work." Stan restrained himself from backhanding Kyle right there. "Study-date tomorrow, ummm."

Stan burst out into a fit of coughing heavy enough to stop him in his tracks, allowing Kyle to catch up, a different concern showing now.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

"F—" More coughing. "Fine."

"Are you getting sick? Ike's sick—lemme feel—" A few people passing watched as Kyle slipped his hand under Stan's bangs, red tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. "You got a fever, dude. I think. Did you like, hang out with Ike yesterday or something?"

The quivering switch inside Stan flipped. "Look just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm a pedophile, alright!? Jesus!"

The silence that followed allowed Stan to comprehend the ridiculousness of his explosion. Kyle surveyed him wide-eyed. "…Did it sound like I was suggesting that?"

"Um…I'm going to the nurse." He did an awkward one-eighty, fighting the crowd to get as far away as fast as possible, both of them aware the nurse was in the opposite direction.

--

Stan had never heard such a short syllable backed by so much breathe—seemingly an entire lungful—and so much rage, of course.

"STAN"

Kind of beyond punctuation. There was no question of what the problem was—Stan cringed as he looked up from his afternoon slump to see Kyle storming the short distance between the door and counter, nostrils flared, beyond glaring, Ike clawing at his elbow in failed attempt to hold him back.

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH" Entirely beyond Kyle.

He had no excuses worth vocalizing. He gazed helplessly at Ike, and Ike gazed pleadingly back.

"I—I didn't mean to—he was…--"

"Ike SHUT THE HELL UP I'll talk to you later." The accused winced together as Kyle threw him back with a jerk of his elbow—Ike stumbled to keep from falling over, Keds squeaking on the dirty linoleum. Arms now free, he thrust forward and grabbed the front of Stan's T-shirt in both hands. Stan wasn't sure if he was trying to lift him up, or trying to rip his shirt, but neither was really working. He cringed nonetheless. "Well!? Why—in—the—FUCK are you fooling around with my ELEVEN YEAR OLD BROTHER!?"

"He—he…started it." Blood filled his face. Weak, so fucking weak.

Kyle attempted to shove Stan forward, but Stan had a few inches and a few pounds on him, so he mainly just slammed his hands into his chest.

And Ike showed up again, tackling Kyle from behind—Stan was bigger than Kyle but Kyle was bigger than Ike, with Stan having the least desire to fight, rendering all fighting attempts a little silly—Ike essentially hugged his older brother. "Kyle it's none of your business, leave us the hell alone!" Stan squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"SHUT UP, IKE. Stan!" Kyle was practically snarling. It was a little frightening.

He breathed deeply, and each word came out like a rock sinking slowly. "Kyle…it's none of your business."

The utter inanity weakened Kyle for a moment, disgust replacing the lost emotion, and Ike was whimpering and clinging to Kyle—maybe to soften him, maybe to hold him back, and like his older brother, whatever he was trying to do, he was failing.

"How is it not my business? My best friend is fucking my little brother."

"Not _fucking_."

"You know what? Fuck you both. A plague on both your houses." He sighed, not the lofty sigh of disappointed apathy but a harsh, grunting sigh, and left the store, shoving the door open so hard the bell clicked against the wall.

The dust swirled rapidly in the light from the dirty windows, and Ike stood shell-shocked, and Stan slumped once again, and Wendy was poking out from the back room, eyebrows gone, and all was dead and lost, and even like he was, stupid dorky Kyle had to quote stupid Shakespeare like the stupid dork he was.

But when was the last time he'd expended that much emotion on him?

--

"Stan."

He snapped back to attention. Most of his vision was taken up by Ike's desperately exasperated cow eyes, given that Ike had just barely pulled away to speak.

"You're spacing out again. I mean, considering what we're going through I'd suggest you try and get the full value of it."

Stan leaned back on his bed, pulling his arms from around Ike to support himself. "That's the thing."

"No, no, that's not the thing, there's no thing, Stan, Stan…" His tiny hands gripped the hem of Stan's shirt and twisted it, pulling it up to his ribs, more desperate than ever.

"Kyle's…really important to me. He's important to you, too, right?"

Nose scrunched, he dropped the shirt and pulled his hands back into his own lap. "Yeahhh…Stan, he's just jealous, he's just making a lot of noise like he does, don't—don't let him get to you—"

"You're REALLY little."

"I was a college-grade reading level in second grade, my IQ's in the ninety-ninth percentile—"

"You're smart, I know—smarter than me—but that doesn't keep you from being so _little_." He shrugged.

"Fuck little, I'll show you little." Very few good things start with the phrase "I'll show you".

Stan hadn't had very much experience—fooling around with Wendy, who was so preposterously tight-legged it had driven him to near insanity in his horniest of years, sloppy and awkward tonguing with a senior in his sophomore year, who after being somewhat of a friend for the past few months had ignored him completely afterwards, and of course his screwed-up encounters with the little kid who was now showing him why, exactly, in porn, men made such strange faces when having their cock sucked.

And why, why did Ike even know how to do it? _So well?_

And if it was Kyle he was trying to offend so bad why was it Kyle throbbing through him yet again, why'd he have to use such a little, not really innocent, but _little_ kid for releasing all his stupid hormonal impulses? Why was he going so far for Kyle's attention?

"Shtan?" Ike lifted his head. "Are you crying?"

"Um. Yes."

"…Am I that bad?"

And really, he looked absolutely nothing like Kyle—chubby-faced, brown-eyed with some kind of natural tan to Kyle's scrawny, green-eyed paleness, dark lifeless hair, and a snubbed little nose. The only thing connecting them was a last name and a few habits and smells.

Stan came.

"Son of a BITCH—" Ike jumped back onto his knees, rubbing his eye with his knuckle, mouth agape. "You jizzed in my motherfucking EYE. Augh—" He stumbled up from the bed and staggered toward the bathroom, where Stan apathetically listened to the sink running and the splashing of water mingled with swears.

When he came back, one eye wincing and bloodshot, Stan was still crying, and Ike was still confused, but he allowed himself to be held tight, spooning platonically, and Stan thought of Kyle and the term brother-in-law and cried like an eleven-year-old.

--

Kyle had called less and less since he and Red had become a single unit—so the ring tone specified for calls from Kyle's phone shocked Stan somewhat. Ike was asleep, making his sleeping sounds, and he had to stand carefully to keep from waking him. He took the phone from the pocket of his jacket, crumpled on the floor, and took it out to the hall before answering, still walking toward the living room.

"Is Ike there?"

"Hi."

"Is Ike there?"

"Yeah, he's asleep. I think he's still getting over that flu—"

"Stan, I want you to stop this right fucking now. I don't know what you want, but I don't believe you actually like my brother the way he likes you, and if you hurt him I swear to God I'll kick your ass."

"I don—"

"I'LL USE A BAT IF I HAVE TO, OKAY."

"That's not what I was gonna say. I was _saying_, I don't think what you want matters in my relationships. Considering what I want doesn't matter in yours, you know." He leaned against the wall at the base of his stairs. All the nervous tension had been cried out of him—he felt, maybe for the first time in his life, cold and calculating.

There was a silent buzz on the other line. "…Okay, Stan, I'm sorry I ignored you for Red. I know we were supposed to be best friends—" were, ouch, "—and I wasn't a good one and I'm sorry. But does that rationalize what you're doing _in the least bit_? For God's sake, I'm seventeen, I'm going to be interested in girls, grow up."

He'd gotten so close, before he veered off into that last bit. "You know, your little brother gives _really_ good blow jobs." And he snapped the phone shut, opened it, turned it off, and threw it onto the couch.

Did he feel like a fucked up asshole? Yeah. Did he feel like he was winning? Also yeah. It all worked out.

--

Kenny was mid-story, gesticulating excitedly, when Wendy wiggled her way between them, setting her way on the lunch table bench so that her hips were shoved against both of the other boy's. Kenny seemed conflicted between annoyance at being interrupted and ignored and being allowed to touch side-butt, and soon decided to be content with this gift bestowed upon him.

"Stan you are misplacing your emotions toward Kyle in a convenient receptacle which will lead to the destruction of your relationship—"

"Wendy, I KNOW—"

"—with both Kyle and Ike and ultimately end up harming a helpless child by using him sexually at a tender age and using his emotions as a tool to make—"

"Wait, Stan's using a helpless child sexually?"

"No, Kenny, go away—"

"—someone with whom you have no hope for jealous, and absolutely no good can come from it, so you should end it now and cut your losses."

"Ike? Is Stan fucking Ike?"

"I'm not fucking Ike, Kenny, go away."

"This sounds _sexy_ and I will not go away." Kenny planted his elbows firmly on the lunch table and gazed severely at the two brunettes, who were appraising him with looks of utmost impatience.

"…Anyway, Stan, seriously."

"No, you don't know the whole story."

"What am I missing?"

"The—the part about…what an ASSHOLE Kyle is—"

"Pfft—"

"—and that Ike's really enjoying it, you know—"

"How old is he now? Twelve?"

"He's eleven, and he'd probably enjoy a new video game just as much—"

"Would not—"

"Ewww why are you fucking an eleven year old?"

"NOT FUCKING—"

"Stan's fucking an eleven year old?" Cartman appeared over Kenny's shoulder, delighted.

"No! Not fucking!"

"What, then?"

"…It's none of any of you guys' business anyway."

"Fooling around?" Kenny offered, clasping his hands together for some reason.

"Aww he's blushing! Aren't you precious. What a precious little pedophile." Cartman pinched his cheek, and Stan punched him in the shoulder, pouting. Cartman made a loud whining sound and rubbed at the area.

The bell rang, and Stan let out a whoosh of air. All three of his friends were speaking at once as he rushed his way into the crowd, blended in, and let them carry him away from the rightful nagging.

--

Ike's eye was still pink and veiny the next time they met—he was shivering on the front step of Stan's house, all his usual excitement gone. "Hi." He mumbled flippantly as he moved into the warm interior and causally curled up on the couch. "Coldest day of the year, they're saying."

Stan sat down beside him. There was absolutely nothing of Kyle in him by now—whatever sun had brought up the few scattered freckles had been long ago enough that his skin had cleared back to its natural tone.

"Stop staring at me." Ike mumbled, drunkenly swaying over to Stan and shoving his mouth up against his jaw line.

Ike's cell phone chirped in his pocket. He swore, pulled away, and pulled it out. "Hello? Oh, hi…no…no…sure, um…wait—" Ike covered the mouth piece and gnawed his lip. "Stan, are we…um…"

"Do you wanna go?" Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his head.

"Umm…Filmore wants to hang out, and I haven't seen him in a while, and—" Ike was blushing. For fuck's sake.

"Ike, I'm breaking up with you."

"Were we together? I thought we were just fooling around."

Damn those Broflovskis, they practically farmed heart breakers.

"Go hang out with Filmore, I'll be here…being old." He sighed again.

"Stan, you are really, really hot and I would fuck you on broken glass but you're kind of whiny and you like my brother way too much, which is cool and all but KYLE. IS. STRAIGHT." He opened his hands in front of them and waved them with each word, trying to instill the meaning into them like everyone who had known him since he was fourteen had.

"Oh go away."

"Thanks for the cum in my eye." Ike heartlessly left, the way Broflovskis do—quickly.

--

Today was a day of breaking ties.

Kyle glared at him as he opened the door, arms crossing instantly. "You're really, really not welcome here."

"I broke up with Ike. I am so sorry and so sick, I honestly never felt any sexual attraction for him, I mean maybe if he was older he's pretty cute, but I was just fucking with you for ignoring me."

Kyle leaned against the doorway, not allowing him inside but not slamming the door in his face. Better than he expected.

"Kyle, I know you're straight and all, and I know this'll just weird you out, but I've been completely in love with you since I was fourteen. I mean, probably earlier than that but I've known about it since I was fourteen. And I will not be able to be a normal human being until I get closure on this."

His lower lip had fallen slightly, showing him those perfect teeth he loved, and his expression had gone from annoyance to concern—his two poles. "Stan. I love you like a brother. But I don't swing that way."

He hadn't realized he'd had any hope until it died. Three years died.

"O—okay, that's…that's all I wanted to—um—" Fucking little bitch. He sniffled and wiped at the tears with the back of his wrist.

"Stan…" Kyle reached out his arms, and however much he wanted to say he was fine and he'd see him tomorrow and walk away like a man, he didn't feel like a man, and he wasn't fine. He walked sleepily into Kyle's arms, and Kyle held him, which was what he had always wanted but nothing at all like it should've been.

The coldest day of the year, and they stood on the front porch with the door wide open, while Red sat upstairs and wondered where the hell her boyfriend was.

--

"Stan? Are you okay?"

Butters was standing on his porch, hugging himself tightly, wearing just a T-shirt and jeans.

"Huh? I'm—I'm fine…" He was halfway home and still sniffling and crying—just a little. He was beginning to man up. Just a little. "What're you doing?"

He laughed, bubbly and hopeless. "My m-mom accidentally locked me out again, so I'm just—uhh—waiting 'til she realizes and lets me back in."

"It's way too cold to be outside like that—Butters, just come home with me." He sighed. Distracted now, the crying had finally stopped.

Butters considered, lip set, before hopping off the porch and into step behind Stan on the sidewalk, like a baby duck following a mama. "I don't mean to impose, b-but it is pretty cold." He burst into a fit of coughs that wracked his narrow rib cage, and when he straightened up he was all baby-blue eyes, heartbreaking in a good way. Already, Stan was considering the many differences between Stotches and Broflovskis—and considering the many, many people his own age who would very happily want and love him.


End file.
